Funny That Way
by Oddfellow
Summary: Edward reflects on his struggles with love... Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight nor am I affiliated with it in any way. Hell, I'm kind of guilty I wrote this at all—it's just my attempt to give Mr. Perfect some form of depth. Enjoy.

Funny That Way

He could remember everything. His mind saw the past as if through some polished mirror, looking at all the momentous events, all the crossroads, all of the things he could've _should've_ done like they had only occurred moments ago. He saw faces. He saw the faces of the people he had killed, the people he had deemed worthy of destruction. Often he saw the face of his mother. Bella's face now occupied the largest part of his internal reflection, but there was always that one face that hovered around the edge of his mind, reminding him of the constant struggle of thirst, giving hope that he could win in the end.

He remembered the influenza epidemic, how it had wormed itself inside his lungs and made his temples ache and his brow damp with fever, how the phlegm he had begun hacking up was speckled red. He remembered seeing his mother for the last time as she was carried away on a sweat-soaked stretcher. He remembered falling farther and farther away from daylight into calm, cool darkness that was really far more comfortable then the world he had just left. And then the black was shattered as white hot bolts of pain seared his flesh, and he was staring up into a face so beautiful it made him choke on his screams; but then the tendrils of fire were racing along his veins and obliterated all thought, and the beautiful face disappeared into days of hellish oblivion.

And he had been so angry at first, so damn _furious_ that the angel's face belonged to a creature that had deigned to save him, but had left his mother to rot in a putrid mass grave, her corpse impossible to recognize amongst all the bloated carcasses. And what was he now? He heard Carlisle's words—his _father's_ words, he thought, and sneered at the idea—that they were not human, not mortal, but they were not required to be a part of the evil that, he felt, came so naturally to them. They were still God's children, Carlisle said; they still had a choice.

But he was _so_ _thirsty._

He found that every time his teeth sank into skin, that every time that first drop of blood hit his tongue—always animal blood in those early days, never human—all of Carlisle's teachings fell away, and there was only the blood and the taste and the bittersweet dwindle of the life he sapped dry. The words that fell from Carlisle's lips were parched and brittle; they were meaningless against the feel of that rich, dark redness, and he gulped it greedily until it coated his throat stained his mouth. Why be strong, he wondered, when sin felt so much better?

He knew why; he had always known why, but the resentment had built inside of him until he lashed back at Carlisle, at this striking, beautiful man—yes, he thought, still a man—who was inherently _good_ in a way he thought he could never be. He killed humans then, and left when the disappointment in Carlisle's eyes became too much to bear. He hadn't thought before that Carlisle's esteem would matter quite so much—after all, wasn't it Carlisle's fault that he had become this—_thing_—in the first place? Wasn't it Carlisle's insistence of abstinence that made it so damn hard to endure that never-ending thirst? Weren't Carlisle's lessons nothing more than sermons based on the naive belief that the preservation of the human side was worth the hunger? And he knew deep down that it was right, and it made him even angrier; he knew those words were right, but they sure as hell weren't easy to follow. Eternity loomed in front of him as a shadowy, bone-dry desert, and he could not help but turn away and seek the only blood that could slake his thirst; the first few corpses he left behind weren't found by the police for days later.

He had been very young, too. Humans, he had reasoned, were not all good. Would it not benefit the world to destroy those humans who had nothing but evil left in their souls? Wouldn't it be justice to only drink the murderers, the rapists, the people who threatened the existence of others? Surely. He was aiding humanity, not threatening it. He was a creature far more powerful then any human could hope to be; did he not have the right—no, the responsibility—to use his strength for the betterment of the human world?

It was an excuse and he knew it. No matter how sweet the blood of sinners was on his tongue, he couldn't stop that damn face floating back into mind, the irrevocably golden eyes accusing. That face reminded him of his own weakness; that face gave him an infuriating example of strength. It showed him the inexcusable arrogance of playing God and the unforgivable evil of taking mortal life. It was Carlisle's face, and it was everything that he could be and was not. He realized, in the end, it was all he could really hope for.

Even so, he was surprised at himself the day he returned to that face and begged forgiveness. He was less surprised that it was granted. But he had thought that after the incredible amount of—what was the modern phrase?—_bullshit_ he had put himself—and Carlisle—through, it would be harder to come to terms with each other. Strangely enough, he found his anger ebbing away; if life was too short to miss chances, then eternity was too long to hold a grudge. And as much as he was loath to admit it, he wanted that face to look at him with approval...with pride...without regret. It just took him a while to figure that out.

Love was funny that way.

_fin_

A/N: Hope you liked! Comments always appreciated.


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